


on a sunny tuesday afternoon, the late sunlight glowing in your hair

by rizcriz



Series: the i love you collection [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, blink and you'll miss it suicidal thoughts, dont think of the implications, even though theres a lot of sad if you think of the implications, uh its sad but its mostly happy so dont get made at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 08:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18048809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: He’s hit with the taste of opium, and the sweet, hickory scent of the Fillorian woods. Magic swells up within him, dances along his fingertips, and up into the air all around him. He feels his smile inch wider; even more so when he looks to his right and see’s the meadow. And beyond that—the cottage. Three little kids are running around chasing one another in the front of it, and Quentin’s sitting on the ground with a baby, smiling hopelessly at her, while she gurgles and laughs, tugging at his beard. Teddy comes from around the side of the cottage, holding a stack of freshly washed mosaic tiles, his wife trailing after him, content smiles on both their faces.This is Eliot’s happy place.He swallows, before making his way over. The leaves and twigs beneath his feet crunch and crack, giving him away. And before he knows it, three excited screams are directed at him, and he’s got a child attached to each leg, hugging him tight like a viper, and one holding her arms up at him, hands opening and closing; yelling for him to pick her up.---Or, Eliot relives a memory.





	on a sunny tuesday afternoon, the late sunlight glowing in your hair

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys soooo . . . tissues? But like. Happy and sad tears. It's only happy if you don't think of the implications. Don't think of the implications and you'll be fine!

 

“Are you going there again? I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

Eliot shrugs, wrapping his hand around the doorknob of the cottage. “I really couldn’t care less, Charlton. I . . . can’t just waste away in here. With you.” He glances over his shoulder, “Sorry, not sorry.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Besides, I’ve got about twelve Todd’s running around doing their thing. The monsters monsters aren’t going to find me.” 

“But, what if they  _ do _ ?” He asks the same question every day. It’d be tiring if Eliot weren’t already so tired.

Eliot shrugs again, turning his gaze back on the door and pulling it open. “Least I’ll die in my  _ actual _ happy place.” He smiles softly, before walking through the door and making his way across campus. The door’s not far off—just a few feet away from the Brakebills sign. There’s a scream off in the distance, probably one of the Todd’s getting torn apart, but Eliot ignores it and steps through the door and into the memory. 

He’s hit with the taste of opium, and the sweet, hickory scent of the Fillorian woods. Magic swells up within him, dances along his fingertips, and up into the air all around him. He feels his smile inch wider; even more so when he looks to his right and see’s the meadow. And beyond that—the cottage. Three little kids are running around chasing one another in the front of it, and Quentin’s sitting on the ground with a baby, smiling hopelessly at her, while she gurgles and laughs, tugging at his beard. Teddy comes from around the side of the cottage, holding a stack of freshly washed mosaic tiles, his wife trailing after him, content smiles on both their faces.

_ This _ is Eliot’s happy place. 

He swallows, before making his way over. The leaves and twigs beneath his feet crunch and crack, giving him away. And before he knows it, three excited screams are directed at him, and he’s got a child attached to each leg, hugging him tight like a viper, and one holding her arms up at him, hands opening and closing; yelling for him to pick her up. 

The laugh bubbles up out of his chest of its own volition as he leans down and picks her up, pulling her in. She tucks her head under his chin, giggling breathlessly and wrapping her arms around his neck, while he secures his hold on her by wrapping his hand around her thigh. It’s almost too tight, her hold on his throat, but in a good way. Content suffocation, is what he calls it. Not enough to strangle, just enough to remind him that he’s here. Enough to make him think he’s alive, and that this is real.

Quentin’s finally standing up, bringing the baby with him. He’s got that smile on his face—the one Eliot’s finally happy to admit is just for him. He feels the soft pitter patter of his heart quicken with each step closer Quentin gets, and he reaches out with his free hand once he’s close enough. Quentin’s eyes crinkle in the way they do when he’s happy, and he takes Eliot’s hand, pulling it up and brushing it against his cheek. Quiet signal that he’s happy he’s back. His way of saying he’s happy Eliot hadn’t died on his trip to the village down by the stream. It’s sweet; when Eliot pretends Quentin’s not scared of him dying all the time. 

Which, right now, Eliot’s more than happy to do. 

“Hey, Pop,” Teddy calls from across the clearing, where he’s kneeling at the mosaic. He’s directing his wife, showing her the ropes. Eliot’d spent so much time reminding him this wasn’t the family business, and yet, somehow, Teddy found sitting for hours in a sandbox placing tiles fun. Even now, when he’s got a wife and children of his own, he settles into his old spot, and works on whatever unfinished puzzle Quentin and Eliot had been working on before he arrived. Though, these days, its the same one every time Eliot sidles up to them. 

Eliot calls back a hello, but keeps his eyes locked on Quentin for a long moment. Lets the false relief roll around in his chest for a bit, while his grandchildren prattle on about something. He’s heard the stories more than a dozen times at this point, but still, none of it quite sticks. Because it  _ is _ a memory; and when he’d first heard the story, it’d been a lot like this. Focused on Quentin, and the baby in his arms. Focused on just the feeling of  _ being _ in this moment with him. 

It wasn’t the first moment he’d been willing to admit it to himself—how hopelessly in love he was with Quentin. But it was the one that stuck. 

“You’re late,” Quentin says, all false accusation. “We were beginning to think we’d have to have dinner without you. And then send out a search party.” 

The laughter comes quick, just like it always does, and he leans in, as best he can with all the grandchildren clinging and prattling around him, to press a kiss to Quentin’s temple. “And here I thought I was more important than a home cooked meal,” He says as he pulls away.

Sofia, tucked in on his shoulder, lifts her head, wiping at her eyes with whole fists. He thinks she was four at the time. She’s so tiny. And he’d never tell the others, or anyone but Quentin, but she’s his favorite grandchild.  She’s all wild energy and doe eyes. All questions and giggling. She’s the most like Quentin of them all. Teddy’s said she’s like if Quentin and Eliot somehow turned into a little girl—she’s temperamental like Eliot, but kind and patient like Quentin, he’d say. 

She looks up at Eliot with her big, sleepy doe eyes, and says, “Papa El is the  _ most _ important!”

Only she’s  _ four _ , and she doesn’t know how to say important. Eliot’s heart swells over with fondness, and he turns his neck, almost painfully, in order to press a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you, Sofia,” He whispers, lifting his head and pressing his chin atop her hair. “At least  _ someone _ loves me,” He adds, calling it pointedly across the clearing.

Quentin rolls his eyes, “Teddy, can you believe your father?” He calls without looking away, and with stars twinkling in his eyes. “He’s hogging the grandkids,  _ and _ claiming we don’t love him!” 

Teddy gasps mockingly. “Oh  _ no _ ,” He calls, and Eliot can see over Quentin’s shoulder that he’s not even bothering to look up from where he’s pointing at a green tile. “Whatever will we do?” Finally, he looks up as Serafina places the tile, and smirks. He’s got Quentin’s smirk. All mirth and playfulness. Eliot knows what’s coming—would know even if he hadn’t lived this memory a hundred times— but even still, he feels the full brunt of sprightly fear dance through his gut. “I know!  _ Puppy pile _ !” 

Quentin takes a step back. “I’ve got the baby!” He exclaims.

And just like that, Serafina’s jumping up and running across the meadow to carefully take the baby from him. Quentin stares at her, wide eyed and shocked—like she’s betrayed him, but not really. He’s grown attached to all of their grandkids, but he’s always had a little place in his heart for the babies. If Eliot didn’t love him so much he’d make fun of him for it—but, he does, and Quentin knows his secret about Sofia being his favorite, so he just quirks an eyebrow instead. Quentin narrows his eyes.

It’s . . .  _ something _ . Living an entire lifetime with someone. How he can have an entire conversation with Quentin without saying a single word.

Quentin’s narrowed eyes are a  _ challenge _ . 

But Eliot just shrugs, and Quentin’s eyes go wide before he laughs.

And then one grandkid lets go of Eliot’s leg, rushes at Quentin, and the other reaches up to tickle Eliot. Erin and Nicolas; twins. He still remembers Teddy and Serafina walking through the meadow, each holding a baby in their arms. Remembers the literal sob as Teddy offered Nicolas up to Quentin—the teary eyed gaze, and the choked off way Quentin had said, “ _ Oh my god, we’re old _ ,” as he looked up at Eliot with those stars in his eyes.

It’s one of his favorite things about coming to this life with him—because in real life, in the time line they’re actually living, Quentin doesn’t get to have stars in his eyes. He doesn’t even get time to look up at the stars. He’s so lost in the chaos of real life, and of his mind. But here, with their son, and their sons family—they never disappear. It’s like looking directly at the night sky on a clear night, looking at Quentin. He’s so alive here. So in his element.

The laughter cracks him, and he carefully sets Sofia down in front of him—and the little traitor that she is, jumps up to help Nicolas in tickling him—and before he knows it, he’s falling to his knees, laughter filling up the meadow all around them. Echoing and bouncing off the trees. This is the part of the memory that goes fuzzy. Because he’s so warm and lost in all the emotions he’d felt this day.

It’s why he chooses this memory, day in and day out. 

He gets a little bit of it all. Of Quentin and his starry eyes, of Teddy and Serafina just . . . _being_. Of the complete and utter joy of being around the grandkids. Of the warmth and ease and _happiness_ that comes from all of it.

Quentin falls beside him, eyes crinkled up with laughter. He’s waving his hands carefully, sure not to accidentally hit any of the grandkids as they assault him and Eliot with tickling. “I give!” He says through the laughter. He makes a little dopey sound—one of Eliot’s favorites, almost like goofy but so inherently Quentin that it takes up his laughter and transforms his smile—that Eliot so rarely gets to hear, and Eliot’s heart soars. He echoes Quentin’s sentiments, but the children tickle for a moment longer, before falling, sprawling out wide next to them, laughing breathlessly. 

It’s another one of those things that worked its way up Eliot’s list of favorite sounds. The laughter of children.

He remembers the days before, when he’d grimace and cast a spell to mute it. But having his own grandkids has kind of transformed the sound in ways he can’t even explain. 

A part of him wishes he’d lived long enough to meet Nicolas’ and Erin’s children. 

The other part of him just wants to stay in this moment forever.

This is the end of the memory. 

Lying here, looking into Quentin’s eyes, crinkled up with joy. Eliot reaches out, strokes his cheek, thumb brushing gently over the skin above his cheek bone. Tracing the laughter lines there, crinkling out from beneath his eyes. He could get lost in Quentin’s eyes.

And he’s got all the time in the world. So, as the sound of laughter fades from the memory, and as everything starts to slow—he does.

If the monsters find him, he won’t mind. Because this is where he wants to die. Lying side by side with Quentin in the field outside their cottage in the woods. Surrounded by family and laughter. Tears sting at his eyes, and one particularly daring tear manages an escape, slipping down, and dripping into the grass beneath him. 

He wants to tell Quentin, here. That he loves him. And he does. Every day, as the memory slowly fades out. 

As his surroundings dissipate around him, he takes one more look at the constellation of Quentin’s gaze. Let’s the sunny tuesday afternoon slowly fade away, until all that’s left is Quentin, with the sun shining in his hair, and the stars glistening in his eyes. He brushes his knuckles against Quentin’s cheek, just as the darkness creeps in around him. 

“I love you, Q,” He breathes.

And then he’s there, standing at the door to the past.

He heaves a breath, brushes away the tears, and walks through it.

_ He’s hit with the taste of opium, and the sweet, hickory scent of the Fillorian woods. Magic swells up within him, dances along his fingertips, and up into the air all around him. _

 

**Author's Note:**

> That's part three I think? Of the i love you collection (the titles are the ways the i love you's are said, if you hadn't caught on. They're the prompts i'm writing all these off of.)
> 
> Come hang out! i'm sadlittlenerdking on tumblr!
> 
> (also lemme know what you think it fuels my heart kinda like this memory fuels Eliot's)
> 
> (Just less sad)
> 
> (Shit, don't think of the implications!!!)


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